“Well, in truth, Elizabeth,” Shakespeare replied, “I fear I cannot claim that I was always a good friend to you.”
“How so? And why not?”
“I must admit that upon more than one occasion, I had told Tuck here that you would only bring him trouble.”
“And so I have,” Elizabeth replied.
“Do not say that, Elizabeth,” Smythe protested.
“ Tis naught but the truth, Tuck,” she replied, with a sigh. “From the day we first met at the theatre, I have only brought you trouble. And Will, too. I cannot forget that he was nearly killed on my account.”
“ Tis true that I was very nearly killed,” said Shakespeare, “but ‘twas not on your account, Elizabeth.”
“I know,” she said, “but neither you nor Tuck would ever have found yourselves placed in harm’s way had you not chosen to befriend and aid me. And now it has happened once again. You might have been killed or badly injured in that wreck, and twice now Tuck was nearly killed. And all on my account!”
“Well… when you put it that way, it does seem as if all the fault is yours,” said Shakespeare.
“Will! For God’s sake, she feels badly enough as things stand!”
“I spoke in jest,” Shakespeare replied. “So far as I can see, Elizabeth, if you were at fault in anything, ‘twas in going along with Catherine in this hare-brained scheme, but then you were only trying to help a friend and I cannot fault you in that. I would do no less for Tuck, nor Tuck for me. That misfortune has befallen is in some part, doubtless, due to Fate, but in part due also to the intervention of others. ‘Tis there the true blame lies, and ‘tis there that we must seek to place it.”
“I agree,” said Tuck, emphatically. “We know that two of the guests here are impostors, and that those two are likely to be found among Blanche’s suitors. Some we have already managed to eliminate from our consideration, but that still leaves Braithwaite, Camden, Holland, and Dubois, and their respective ‘fathers,’ if fathers they truly be.”
“Aye,” said Shakespeare. “And I am somewhat disposed towards eliminating Braithwaite from our list of suspects, too.” “Why?” asked Smythe.
“Well… he seems a very decent sort of fellow,” Shakespeare said. “And I have a good feeling about him.”
“I see. So you wish to eliminate him from consideration merely because you happen to like him?”
“Not entirely. He is the one suspect who does not have a father present, and we are looking for two men. Although I do admit I like him. He is a very likeable young man.”
“That very quality makes for a good cozener,” said Smythe.
“What, are you suggesting that I could be easily taken by some sharp cozener?”
“Will, anyone could be taken by a cozener, especially a sharp one,” Smythe replied. “Do you think you are immune because, as a poet, you are a great observer of human nature and its foibles? Well, with all due respect, by comparison, you are but an apprentice at the art of observation. A good cozener is a master of observing human nature and its foibles. If I have learned nothing else since I have arrived in London, I have at the very least learned that!”
“I suppose you have a point,” said Shakespeare, “although my instincts still tell me that he is no more and no less than what he represents himself to be. What do you know of him, Elizabeth?”
“No more than you,” she replied. “He seems like a nice young man, and he has good manners. ‘Twould seem that he has breeding. Beyond that, I can tell you nothing more. I have not had much to do with him.”
“Well, what of Dubois?” asked Smythe. “You seemed to have had rather more to do with him,” he added, and immediately regretted it. Still, he could not prevent himself from going on. “You seemed quite taken with him when I saw the two of you out walking.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Monsieur Dubois is very charming. His manners are exquiste and his sense of fashion is impeccable. He is capable of learned discourse on such things as poetry and history and philosophy. I cannot imagine that he could be some sort of criminal.”
“I find it even more difficult to imagine that he could be searching for a wife,” said Smythe.
“The ladies here all seem to find him very handsome,” said Elizabeth.
“And how do you suppose he finds the ladies? Or does he even bother looking?”
“Such pettiness does not become you,” said Elizabeth. “You could do well to emulate Monsieur Dubois.”
“I do not think I could quite manage the walk,” said Smythe, dryly.
“Oh, but I should like to see you try,” said Shakespeare.
“I think that you are both being very rude,” Elizabeth said. “Phillipe Dubois is a gentleman in every sense of the word.”